


Angelus Cruorem

by electricskeptic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-25
Updated: 2010-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-19 20:36:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricskeptic/pseuds/electricskeptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene from 6.05. Samuel said that the cure wouldn’t work if Dean had one drop of <i>human</i> blood; he didn’t mention anything about angels. Or, in which Dean has cravings, and Castiel provides.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angelus Cruorem

**Author's Note:**

> This fic serves the dual purpose of both popping my SPN cherry and breaking my year-long hiatus, so I’m just a _little_ nervous about it. I had hoped that my first foray into the fandom would be a witty and insightful commentary on character development, or else some well-constructed plotty epic full of twists and turns, but sadly this is pretty much just porn. It is also undoubtedly the filthiest thing I’ve ever written. I’m slightly ashamed of myself. ~~But only slightly.~~

Dean runs down side streets, feeling the adrenaline rushing through his veins, muscles pumping harder and taking him faster than he’s ever been able to go before. He has no idea where he’s going, no real idea where he _is,_ just that he needs to get _away;_ as far away as possible from Lisa’s house ( _his_ house), from the woman who is not his wife and the child who is not his son. He doesn’t know if he loves Lisa, but he knows that he cares for her deeply, and he adores Ben like his own. He counts them as family now, and yet only moments ago he’d wanted more than anything to rip their throats out. Lisa’s put up with a lot, but she won’t forgive him this.

Dean’s glad for it.

He might have superhuman speed now, but he won’t be able to keep sprinting like this forever. It’s not like running on an empty stomach; it’s a hundred, a thousand times worse. It’s _agonizing,_ a crippling nausea rising inside of him, building and intensifying every time his feet strike concrete, and he wants nothing more than to just _stop,_ to find himself some warm, willing flesh; to break open a vein or two and drink down the elixir inside. The streetlights pierce his retinas as they blur past, music from a nightclub two blocks away pounds in his head, and all he can smell is _blood, blood, blood,_ sharp and ferrous on his sinuses.

Rounding a corner, he runs headlong into another body. Pretty girl, way too young for him; all short skirt and dark hair and long, long legs, but the details barely register with Dean because she _reeks_ of it.

“Whoa, sorry,” she giggles drunkenly, staggering on her heels and lurching towards him, and Dean should really get out of there _right the hell now,_ but he’s rooted to the spot, transfixed. Fists clenching and unclenching at his sides as he follows the pulse of her carotid artery, crude in the pale expanse of her throat.

“Hey man, you okay?” She squints up at him in something like concern, and Dean fights the bizarre urge to laugh, the beginnings of hysteria taking him unawares. It would be _so easy_ \- so very easy to pull her to him, sink in his teeth and take what he needs. It would be over so fast, she probably wouldn’t even see it coming.

It’s that thought that pulls Dean back a little to his senses, and he tears away from her with a sound like a dying animal, forcing himself on even faster than before and ignoring her shouts to _wait, come back_ that follow him for what seems like forever. He throws himself down the first deserted alleyway he finds, sinking to the filthy floor with his knees to his chest and his head in his arms, fighting to just _breathe past it._ The smell of tobacco and piss is strong, but it does nothing to mask the girl’s scent and it takes every ounce of self-control he learnt in Hell not to run back after her.

With what little brain power he has left, he wonders if this is how Sam felt while he was under Ruby’s spell. Sam, who watched that son of a bitch turn him and just stood there and _fucking did nothing._

Dean clenches his fingers, digging his nails into the flesh of his forearms in the vain hope that the pain will distract him from the roiling of his stomach and the swimming in his head. Prayers begin to slip past his lips before he can fully register what he’s doing: _I can’t -_ and _God, help me,_ and then, entirely without his permission, _Cas, please._

And Dean didn’t intend to say it, had no fucking clue what was going to come out of his mouth, but it’s out there now, so why not follow through? At this point, he has absolutely nothing left to lose, so he whispers the words into the stale air around him: _come on, man, I know you’re busy up there, but I really need your help. **Please.**_

He only realizes that he isn’t expecting an answer when he hears the faint rustle of wings and the unmistakable greeting, _Hello, Dean;_ rich and gravel-deep, and Dean would recognize that voice anywhere.

It takes effort, but Dean manages to raise his head to see Castiel standing maybe five feet away, hands shoved deep in his pockets, cast in shadow. He looks exactly the same as ever, and yet _more,_ somehow, his features clearer, eyes impossibly bluer, every line on his face and crease in his coat visible even from a distance and with next to no light. Dean’s always imagined that he could feel the power emanating from Castiel, but he realizes suddenly what absolute bullshit that was, because now - now he _can,_ a crackle of Grace in the air that excites and terrifies him all at once, dancing over nerve endings and commanding his hairs to stand to attention. He’s almost surprised he can’t see the wings - and then realizes that he can _hear_ them as Castiel moves closer; the whisper of invisible feathers sliding over each other, and it sounds like confession.

He can smell the angel’s blood, too, and it’s different to the tang of humans. The metal and salt is offset by something else, something like ozone and blown-out candles, the crisp scent that lingers in the atmosphere before a thunderstorm. Dean wants to find out if the taste lives up to the aroma.

“Impeccable timing, as ever,” he snipes, but his heart isn’t in it. This is the first time they’ve seen each other since the whole mess with the plagues and Balthazar and Raphael, and there should be some residual anger from that particular incident, but Dean just doesn’t have the energy for it. “You couldn’t have popped down for a visit _before_ that douche decided to force-feed me his happy juice?”

Castiel frowns for a moment before replying, and Dean imagines that big ol’ angelic brain working overtime trying to translate the question from Dean-speak into standard English. It doesn’t really quell the urge to open up Castiel’s throat like a high school dissection project and drink his jugular, and Dean finds himself shrinking a little into the wall at his back.

“The concealment sigils on your ribs are still in place, Dean. I can’t find you unless you want me to.”

“Why are you here now, then?” Dean grits out. It seems as though every muscle in his body is trembling with exertion; whether from the sickness itself or the effort required to refrain from attacking Castiel, he doesn’t know.

“I’m answering your prayers,” Castiel tells him completely seriously, and Dean feels what little fight he has in him leave his body, shoulders slumping in defeat.

“Can you fix me?”

He regrets asking almost as soon as the question is out of his mouth, because Castiel’s non-expression immediately morphs into the one that Dean has dubbed _mild concern:_ head canted to the side, a faint crease of worry between his eyes. It’s more or less identical to every other one of Castiel’s faces, but as with so many other things, the context is everything.

“I’m sorry. That is… beyond my power.”

“Beyond your - you’re a freakin’ angel!” Dean gripes, even though he knows far too well that there are some things even angels can’t accomplish. A gnawing panic begins to grow in the pit of his stomach once more though, because if even Castiel can’t save him, then he really is out of options. He hopes to God that Samuel will do the right thing and kill him, because he knows Sam won’t and he doubts that Cas would be too thrilled at the prospect.

“I can’t cure you,” Castiel is saying, as though Dean hasn’t even spoken, “but I can help, somewhat.”

“You can - how? Dude, make _less_ sense.”

Castiel chooses to ignore him and instead sets about slowly and methodically removing his trenchcoat, something that Dean’s never, ever seen him do before. He wonders with what’s left of his rational mind why Cas would decide it’s appropriate to start undressing in an alleyway in the middle of nowhere, _now_ of all times.

“No-one will see us here,” Castiel informs him, as though he’s been reading Dean’s mind - and knowing Cas, he probably has. Dropping the coat to the floor, he starts on removing his suit jacket, and it’s only when he gets to pushing up his shirt sleeve that Dean catches onto what exactly he’s doing. The realization hits him like a punch to the gut, filling him with a kind of sick delight. He wants, so _badly_ he wants, but to give in would be the absolute worst thing to do in so, so many ways.

“Cas…”

“You need to feed,” and with that, Castiel effectively demolishes any ideas Dean might’ve had about possibly getting the wrong end of the stick. He scrambles to his knees but doesn’t stand, still not quite able to believe that Cas is offering… what he’s offering.

“I _can’t_. One drop of blood, and there’s no going back. You _know_ that.”

“One drop of _human_ blood,” Castiel corrects mildly, like it fucking matters. “I’m not human, Dean. My blood should strengthen you; give you control for long enough to stop you harming someone else. I know how badly you hunger for it.”

Dean wants to tell Castiel that he doesn’t know a damn thing, but his mouth won’t co-operate with his brain and he’s held captive by the rhythmic thudding of someone’s heartbeat in his ears; either Castiel’s or his own, he can’t tell.

Castiel draws a knife from absolutely nowhere and cuts a clean, deep slice to the inside of his forearm. Fresh blood wells up from the wound and the scent of it fills the air; heady and decadent, and Dean can’t even _think_ anymore. There are reasons, he knows, reasons why this is a Bad Idea, but he can’t remember what any of them are, and he can’t look away.

Castiel comes closer still, moving slowly as if approaching a feral animal, and Dean watches red droplets fall from his arm in slow motion, splattering on the dirt-encrusted ground in miniature vermillion starbursts. He’s seen far too much blood in his life, but he hasn’t been able to appreciate the sheer _beauty_ of it like this since he was down in the Pit.

The urge to just lunge forward and _take_ is almost unbearable, but still Dean holds himself back, glancing up to remind himself that this is _Cas,_ not just some meals-on-wheels McDonald’s extravaganza. Even so, he feels the fangs emerge, sliding over his human teeth, and a wave of self-hatred manages to permeate the haze of bloodlust for a moment or two. He’s half-surprised that Castiel doesn’t just shove him away in disgust like the monster he is, and doesn’t know whether to feel gratified or disappointed that the angel opts instead to continue staring down at him. His eyes are brimming with something that is not quite pity and not quite sorrow but some amalgamation of the two, and Dean is crushed beneath the weight of all that blue.

“You can’t hurt me, Dean,” Castiel reminds him, more gently than Dean is used to from him. “Please, let me help you.”

Dean’s had just about all the encouragement he can take, and finally, _finally,_ he reaches out and grasps Castiel’s arm with both hands, leaning forwards to close his mouth around the tear in the skin. Blood rushes in almost immediately, hot and thick and sweet and fucking _divine;_ already, the hunger begins to lessen, the pain receding as something inside of Dean clicks into place, the last puzzle piece that’s been missing ever since he was turned.

With some instinct that he doesn’t understand, he knows that no human would ever taste like this, make him feel like this, and Dean realizes that it isn’t just blood that he’s taking in but fucking _Grace;_ the very stuff that Castiel is made of, flowing out through his arm and into Dean. Dean can _feel it_ , all that raw power buzzing pleasantly on his tongue, and he sucks a little harder than strictly necessary, desperate in his need to get _more_ of it into his body.

And it isn’t just the taste, either; the sensations that accompany it are indescribable, better than any other high Dean’s experienced, making him feel exhilarated in a way that he hasn’t since he first opened his eyes to find himself six feet under in Pontiac over three years ago. All of his concerns about Sam and Lisa and how fucked up this entire situation is seem to just disappear with every swallow of Castiel’s blood that slides down his gullet, and he’s lit up like a fucking Christmas tree from the inside out. It’s downright _sexual_ is what it is; the random firing of neurons headed straight to his groin, and before Dean knows it he’s inexplicably half-hard in his pants. He’s pretty sure those stupid fucking tween-vampire-romance novels don’t tell it like this.

Castiel doesn’t make a sound, and Dean is grabbed by the sudden need to see his face, to be able to catalogue his reactions and work out what the angel is feeling. Before he’s even consciously aware of making the decision to do so, he’s tearing his mouth away and shooting to his feet, slamming Castiel back into the wall and pinning him in place with his wrists held above his head.

As strong as Dean is now, he’s still no match for an angel, and he’s acutely aware of the fact that the slightest shove from Castiel could have him crashing straight through the brickwork; the barest press of his fingers against Dean’s forehead could knock him out or send him halfway across the world. But none of that happens, and the fact that Castiel is _letting_ him do this - that he _wants_ him to, maybe - sends a weird thrill right the way through Dean’s body.

The blank look on Castiel’s face irritates the hell out of him though, because even now he’s maintaining that remote angelic detachment he’s been wearing ever since he came back from the dead fully juiced up. Held against the wall by Dean’s hands on him, by a goddamn _vampire,_ and the idiot is still just blinking calmly at him as though Dean is a mildly interesting science experiment and Castiel is trying to figure out what he’ll do next. Maybe it makes him the worst friend ever, but Dean finds himself missing the Castiel that was angry and depressed and careening headlong into humanity, because at least Dean could _relate_ to him.

There’s barely an inch of space between their bodies now, but Castiel is as far away as he’s ever been, and Dean finds himself wanting to shatter that rigid self-discipline. He wants to see Castiel lose control, to hear him beg, to make him fucking _scream,_ and the most unsettling thing about it is that he can’t be sure how much of that feeling is the newly-diseased part of him talking, and how much of it has always been there, lying dormant and unacknowledged until his recent loss of inhibitions allowed it to rise to the surface.

“What are you doing, Dean?” Castiel asks - calm. Always fucking calm. Dean can hear his heart beating, and it isn’t racing erratically the way Lisa’s had when she’d been the one pushed up against a wall. It’s steady like Sam’s, but slower; slower than any human’s should be, as though Castiel is keeping it at the bare minimum requirement to keep his vessel functioning. _His vessel._ Dean finds himself wondering whether Jimmy is still hanging around in there somewhere, and kind of really hopes he isn’t.

Dean intends to answer the question, but he’s distracted by the thick ooze of crimson sneaking down the vertical line of Castiel’s forearm, pooling at the crease of his elbow and staining the ruched edge of his rolled-up shirtsleeve. Dean follows it with his tongue back to the source, tasting the entirely human salt of Castiel’s skin beneath the alien flavor of his blood, and the contrast adds an unexpected kick, ratcheting the pleasure factor up a notch higher.

Dean finds the open rent in the flesh again, but he doesn’t suck this time; he laps at it instead, tongue flickering over the torn edges to collect every droplet still leaking from the vein. He doesn’t miss the way Castiel’s breathing hitches oh-so-slightly, the way his heart rate picks up just a little. Infinitesimal changes that would be entirely unnoticeable if Dean wasn’t so far removed from human right now, but they’re there, and Dean allows himself a small victory smile where Castiel can’t see.

Castiel turns his head away, and Dean takes the opportunity to move to the newly-exposed stretch of his neck. He licks a stripe all the way from his collarbone to his jaw line, feeling the unfamiliar rasp of stubble, and he has absolutely no excuse for that because there isn’t even any blood. He can feel it, though, pulsing away just beneath the surface, and he scrapes his fangs lightly over the soft give of flesh. The effort it takes not to break the skin and gorge himself on angel blood is sheer fucking _torture,_ but it’s worth it because Castiel shudders deliciously under his ministrations. Dean takes half a second to wonder what the hell is going on, before he gives up and bites down hard, right at the juncture of neck and shoulder.

The blood flow is faster than it had been from Castiel’s arm and Dean lets it flood his mouth, resonant and holy, feeling the desire surge in response. He’s fully hard and aching now, erection straining uncomfortably in the confines of his jeans, and without any conscious thought he crowds even closer into Castiel’s space and _grinds_ him, desperate to relieve some of the pressure.

This is the point where, if the world still made any kind of sense, Castiel would toss him away in a fit of disgusted outrage and probably smite the crap out of him, because molesting your buddy isn’t really the standard way of expressing gratitude for a charitable good deed. This is what Dean fully expects to happen once he realizes what he’s doing. He does _not_ expect to find himself rutting up against Castiel’s answering arousal, and he’s so floored when that’s exactly how things go that he pulls back to stare, slightly dumbfounded because - holy shit, Cas is _enjoying_ this.

No, Cas is _getting off_ on this.

“You are one kinky son of a bitch, you know that, Cas?”

“Shut up, Dean.”

Castiel’s voice sounds even rougher than usual, and the expression on his face now is one that Dean’s fairly sure he’s never seen before; a strange mix of yearning and confusion with just a little mortification, if the downward slant of his eyes is any indication. The faint pink flush of his cheeks is impressive, considering that Dean’s just been leeching off his blood with a fair amount of vigor, and fuck but it’s a good look for him. Dean finds himself wanting to test just exactly how far he can push this, and he realigns his hips before rolling them into Castiel’s; slowly this time, deliberately, and he grins to himself when Castiel makes a choked noise in his throat, eyes falling shut.

He should really put a stop to this before it can go any further, because they’re definitely in unchartered territory now and it’s probably going to fuck things up between them irrevocably. Then again, so many lines have been crossed already that it’s impossible to even see where the next ones are. Dean probably isn’t going to live through the Vampire Experience, and if this is the one good thing to come out of it, then who is he to refuse?

He releases one of Castiel’s wrists and grips his chin instead, tilting his head up and forcing him to meet Dean’s eyes. What he does next may be borne out of a moment of sheer insanity, half-drunk on blood and lust, but he _remembers_ this; a different alleyway, Dean’s back against the wall and Dean’s blood on Castiel’s hands, but the sharp spike of _want_ before Castiel had proceeded to beat the everloving shit out of him had been the same, and before he can second-guess himself, Dean closes the rest of the distance between them, brings their lips together and kisses Castiel.

It isn’t a nice kiss; it’s hard and brutal, Dean’s hands finding their way into Castiel’s hair, fingers clenching in the dark strands. After a slight time delay, Castiel begins to kiss back and, much to Dean’s surprise, gives as good as he gets, pushy and insistent and far more commanding than any virgin has a right to be, angel or no. His hands are _everywhere_ \- Dean’s shoulders, his back, his ass, grabbing and stroking and pulling at his clothing, possessive and greedy, _claiming_ him, and Dean should not find that thought as much of a turn-on as he does.

Dean’s own hands move from Castiel’s hair to his waist, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and dragging it out of his pants, slipping on the soft, warm skin underneath, and apparently angels sweat because his fingers slide in the beads of perspiration starting to form there. Quiet whimpers and groans escape Castiel as he tongue-fucks Dean’s mouth, and he arches and writhes against Dean’s body like a man insane, bringing their pelvises into contact again and again, and Dean’s dangerously close to the brink of orgasm just from the friction of his cock rubbing against Castiel’s through all their layers of clothing.

His fangs slice through Castiel’s lip when he forgets himself for a moment and bites, but Cas doesn’t flinch away; moans into it, in fact, more blood spilling into Dean’s mouth and passing between them, and it’s _so good_ but still not quite enough. Castiel wrenches away from the kiss, turning his head again and offering Dean the other side of his neck, but Dean has different ideas, a plan starting to piece itself together from the muzzy corners of his brain.

After forty years in Hell, Dean has acquired the kind of anatomical knowledge that no biology textbook can provide; the kind that only comes through excessive amounts of practical demonstration. And he happens to know that the femoral artery - one of Alastair’s favorites - happens to lie particularly close to the surface at the juncture of groin and thigh. With that thought in mind, he drops to his knees again, hearing Castiel’s anticipatory intake of breath as he hits the grime-crusted floor.

He hesitates for only a fraction of a second before he’s wrenching open Castiel’s pants and dragging them along with his boxers down his legs. He then finds himself promptly having to rethink what he told douche vampire earlier; maybe he _does_ play for the other team on occasion, because here he is eye-to-naked-crotch with a very obviously aroused Castiel, and it isn’t putting him off in the slightest. Quite the opposite, in fact - Cas is long and impossibly hard, flushed and dripping with precome, and Dean feels his own cock throb in sympathy. He flicks open the button on his jeans and presses down with the heel of his hand in an attempt to ease some of the pressure, and while it’s not nearly enough, it helps a little.

Dean finds he can’t get easy access to the place he really needs to be with Castiel still standing over him, and he reaches up to tug insistently at the angel’s hips. He’d have better luck trying to bring down one of the buildings on either side of them, but Cas seems to catch on after a moment or two because he slides down the wall, sinking to the ground and letting his legs fall open; thighs spread, pants still pooled around his ankles, and Dean knows that image is going to be seared into his brain for a very long time.

He shuffles a little on his knees until he’s in a better position in front of Castiel, then leans slowly forward, hovering over Castiel’s cock. He lets his breath ghost over there for several seconds, lingering, before moving off to lave at the sensitive inside of a thigh. Castiel makes a disappointed noise as he does so, and Dean smirks into the skin beneath his lips, reaching back up to curl a hand around Cas and jack him in slow, lazy strokes. Not enough to make him come just yet, but enough to drive him fucking crazy in the meantime, and Castiel lets out a frustrated whine in response.

Dean works his way upwards and inwards until he finds himself where he wants to be; at the crease where leg meets torso, and he can feel the pulsating motion of blood vessel just beneath the skin. Castiel’s heartbeat is now neither slow nor steady, and Dean absolutely _cannot wait;_ he opens his mouth wide before pushing down, allowing his fangs to pierce the skin. This time, the blood comes in staccato spurts that hit the back of Dean’s throat; it’s fucking _wonderful,_ and Dean can’t help the moan that escapes him because he doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of how it feels to have Castiel filling him up this way. He feels something like feathers brush against the side of his face, and he wasn’t even aware of how close he was but suddenly there’s a warm, sticky wetness rushing in his jeans, dribbling down the inside of his leg. He’s coming in his pants without even having been touched, and he doesn’t know whether it’s a side-effect of the blood, or whether it’s just _Cas_ who does that to him.

Dean still has blood in his mouth when he goes down on Castiel, and the taste mingles with the bitter musk of precome as he runs his tongue over the head before sliding his lips slowly down the length of the shaft. The sound Castiel makes is downright _pornographic,_ a kind of keening wail that Dean is sure he’d find faintly ridiculous in any other situation. Now, though, he thinks it’s just about the hottest fucking thing he’s ever heard, and he’s suddenly overcome with the need to finish this right here and now.

He pulls almost completely off before driving back down again, and he has to be especially careful to keep his teeth out of the way, because _hello, fangs._ He thinks that this might possibly be too much for any mere human to endure, but as Castiel is so fond of pointing out, he _isn’t_ human, and he just takes it, takes it all. His trademark aloofness is a thing of the past now as his head falls back, slamming against the wall; his hands pull at Dean’s hair and tug on his shoulders, frantic, his hips jerking in tiny, desperate motions with absolutely no grace or rhythm whatsoever. He’s babbling complete nonsense that probably isn’t even English, only Dean’s sure he catches his name in there a few thousand times.

Dean traces the vein on the underside of Castiel’s cock, tongues at the slit, the sensitive bundle of nerve endings just under the head. Then he’s plunging down again, taking Cas in all the way to the hilt, and another thing about this whole being-a-vampire gig is that his gag reflex seems to have all but disappeared. He swallows around his mouthful, and then it’s all over; Castiel’s cock pulses and he’s coming straight down Dean’s throat, Dean’s name falling from his parted lips.

The flavor isn’t half as awful as Dean would have thought - though it’s nothing compared to the nectar of Castiel’s blood - and he drinks down what he can before pulling back slowly, carefully. The picture Castiel paints is fucking obscene; slumped half-comatose against the wall, cock slicked with spit and blood and come. More dripping down between his thighs, scarlet splashed all over his shirt, streaking his neck and his arm, smeared around his mouth.

There’s a long moment in which they just stare at each other, and it’s nothing like their usual stares because Castiel’s eyes are wide and shocked, pupils blown, breathing coming in shaky gasps visible as condensation in the frigid air. And yeah, that right there is pretty much what Dean had been looking for; Castiel’s all-pervading composure completely gone, his mask of angelic imperiousness cracked right down the middle.

Of course, Dean’s feeling pretty fucked-out himself, and the evidence of his orgasm still drying in his jeans is uncomfortable to say the least, but he also feels full - _satisfied_ in a way that he hasn’t since being turned.

He wonders vaguely whether he should thank Castiel, apologize to him, or ask whether he’s up for round two, but the decision is taken out of his hands when Castiel pulls up his pants and straightens his shirt with hands that, unless Dean’s eyes are deceiving him, are actually _shaking._ He climbs gracelessly to his feet, moving away from Dean to pick up his coats and slip back into them. By the time he turns to face Dean again, the blood is gone from his clothes and the lacerations to his body have completely healed; he looks exactly the same as he always does, and not at all like Dean has just sucked him off and drained half of his entire blood supply in a semi-public setting.

Castiel walks back to Dean, presses two fingertips against his forehead; the unpleasant dampness about his crotch disappears, and he knows without having to look in a mirror that the mess of blood and other bodily fluids is gone from his face, too. He feels the fangs recede again, doesn’t know whether it’s a result of Cas’ mojo or just the lack of fresh blood in his general vicinity, but he’s relieved, either way.

“I should go,” Castiel says quietly, but he doesn’t vanish straight away. Instead, he continues to gaze down at Dean intently, until Dean is forced to bite out an irritated _“What?”_ in response.

“Don’t lose faith, Dean. Not yet.”

And Dean kind of wants to tell him that he can take his faith and shove it up his lily-white ass, but he doesn’t get the chance to so much as open his mouth before Castiel takes flight. And that’s when Dean gets his first true taste of just how much his senses have heightened, because he can actually _see_ it; the split-second in which the angel’s wings unfurl from his human body - bright and terrifying, nothing like the shadows Dean remembers from so long ago - and he flings himself into hyperspace.

In spite of everything they’ve just done - in spite of everything they _are_ \- the word at the forefront of Dean’s mind is _beautiful_. And that’s just - he has no idea what to do with that, so he shoves it into some deep, dark corner of his mind where he doesn’t have to think about it.

Dean remains where he is for several minutes, kneeling on the floor of some pig-filthy alleyway, trying to summon the motivation to trudge back to the motel room and Sam. The lust and the urgency slip away as he feels the guilt and the shame and the disgust creep back over him, but the hunger - for now, at least, the hunger stays away.

 _[end.]_   



End file.
